


The Lion's Mask

by carpe_cullen



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Forbidden Love, Hurt/Comfort, Not Canon Compliant, Romance, Some Humor, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-04-10 18:22:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4402409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpe_cullen/pseuds/carpe_cullen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since he was a young boy, Cullen Rutherford always dreamed of becoming a Knight. Though he was not born of noble birth, he never gave up hope that one day he would be able to serve. Leading up to the events of the Fifth Blight, Cullen and his brother, Branson, travel a fateful trip to Denerim to deliver and sell goods to merchants for their father. It is there that Cullen’s life is turned around when he overhears that Highever is recruiting. Tired of being just a miller’s son, he decides to forge nobility and test his will to achieve his dream. What he did not expect, however, was Elissa Cousland and that he would fall for her in the most unexpected place. But what happens when to his love when nobility interferes and the blight strikes Ferelden?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

The rays of the sun beat down on them in the clearing they’ve wandered to, sweat forming on the two men’s brows. The sounds of birds chirping, the river babbling and their feet shuffling in the dirt could be heard all around them. Metal steamed with heat in Cullen’s hand as he held the sword tightly in his grasp, his other hand holding a shield that has seen too many old battles. He circled his opponent graciously, his jaw clenched, muscles growing sore from the strain. In one fluid motion, he swung the sword and it clanged against his opponent’s shield. His hair blew away from his back as he whirled back into position, beads of sweat flying from the strands. **  
**

“You’re going to have to hit harder if you want to kill me, brother!” Branson called out, laughing loudly. The weapons drooped slightly as his shoulders shook with laughter.

Cullen snarled and rolled his eyes at Branson’s teasing but his eyebrow quirked once he saw an opportunity. He rushed forward, his shield moving in front of his body. He shoved Branson with his shield, toppling him to the ground, his head thunking against the dirt. The blunted tip of the sword pointed against his throat as he coughed and heaved for air.

“Do you give up?” Cullen asked, nearly laughing as he saw his brother grumble below.

“That’s cheating.”

“It’s not my fault you underestimated me.” His eyebrows rose as he waited for his brother to give up. It always took a little prodding.

Branson huffed and rolled his eyes before nodding reluctantly.

“Say it.”

“ _Fine…_ I give up!” he sighed, dropping his weapons.

Cullen smiled smugly as he tossed the sword and shield aside, his hand stretching out to help his brother up.

“You did rather well this time, given your opponent is the best swordsman of Honnleath,” he bragged, wiping the sweat from his face onto his shirt.

“You realize that’s not saying much right?” Branson laughed. Once he stood, he brushed the dirt off and looked up at the sun. “We shouldn’t have stopped for so long, we’re supposed to reach Denerim by this evening.”

“Oh, come on now, Bran, where’s that sense of fun you usually have?” he asked. He peeled his shirt from his body and sauntered over to the small river to wash up. “We’ll get there when we get there, we’ll sell all of these old weapons and armor and then we can go back to our boring lives as miller’s sons.”

His hands dipped into the cool water, a welcome sensation prickling at his heated skin, and cleaned the grime from his body. He heard his brother sigh as he came to join him, kneeling at the riverside next to him.

“Our lives aren’t that boring…at least there’re a few pretty girls back home,” he shrugged, then splashed water onto his face.

“Which you’ve all bedded!” He scrubbed at the beard that grew thickly along his jaw, shaking his head as he saw Branson’s chest expand with pride.

“Well, I can’t help that I’m the handsome one in the family.” Cullen scoffed at the statement. “Come on, you look like you’ve been living in a cave for months!”

“I’ve been bus-”

“Busy, I know. Father’s been showing you how to take over for him and…for some reason, you train at night.”

Cullen stopped listening as Branson rambled on about how he needs to trim his facial hair and relationship tips. His mind was off somewhere else. Somewhere where he was born into a different life.  _A Knight_.

He always thought it was the most respectable position a man could hold. You served to protect those from danger and you competed against one another for sport and glory. Though, he’d really be in it for helping those in need. He’ll never forget the day when it happened years ago.

**

_He sat on the wooden seat next to his father, the first trip he’s made to Denerim. His father would constantly travel back and forth to sell the grain along the route to the city. He was known as the best miller in this side of Ferelden and was proud of that fact. They travelled at a quick pace along the Imperial Highway, dust kicking from the ground underneath the horse’s hooves. The two were happily chatting about anything and everything until his father held up his hand, quieting his son, and the horses came to a halt._

_“Hush,” he whispered, his eyes searching through the trees that surrounded them._

_Grass rustled, branches snapped, and within a few moments the shouts of charging bandits rushed towards them. Cullen’s eyes widened, and he screamed in fear as his father’s arms instinctively wrapped around him. Several of the armed men raided the cart, destroying the goods they carried and pillaging the ones they deemed profitable. Two men pulled them from the cart, crashing them to the ground. A man, covered in filth, tugged Cullen away from his protection and tossed him to the side before beating and searching his father._

_“Stop!” Cullen cried, scurrying over and pulling at the man’s clothing weakly. The sharp blade cut across his arm as the man turned to face him. He yelped and fell to his knees as the burning pain seized him, his body trembling as he saw the blood trickling from the wound. As the bandit rose his leg back, winding up to land a swift kick, an arrow flew through the air and struck the back of his head. Cullen watched in horror as the man’s eyes rolled to the back and collapsed to the ground._

_Horses galloping along the path and battle cries sounded as men wearing crested armor charged at the bandits. The soldiers cut through most of the robbers quickly, though a few had run off into the woods. Cullen panted heavily as he saw his father curled on the ground, bloodied and bruised from his attackers. He wanted to run to him, help him in any way he knew how, but his body was frozen and still in shock from his own wound that stung at his arm._

_Two men dismounted from their horses and moved to tend to his father, who motioned them over to his son. The man looked over his shoulder and rushed over with his pack. As he approached, Cullen fell back to the ground, light-headed and scared.  He peered over at the stranger as he removed his helmet to reveal a kind face. His light blue eyes were worried and haggard, his dark hair flattened from the sweat soaked armor._

_“I won’t hurt you,” he spoke softly, his hands digging through his pack to remove rags and a flask of salve. “I’m here to help.” Cullen hesitated for a moment, but as pain surged through him again and he stuck his arm out towards him. He watched as the man skillfully tended to the cut, wincing and whimpering as his arm throbbed._

_“Who are you?” he asked the soldier. The man’s blue eyes flicked up kindly to him with a small smile._

_“My name is Ser Roland, I’m a Knight of Denerim. And you are?” the Knight answered, gently applying the salve to the wound._

_Cullen took a deep breath as a cool, tingling sensation spread through his arm, almost erasing the pain._

_“Cullen,” he paused. “What’s a Knight?”_

_“A Knight is meant to protect the innocent from the wickedness of the world,” he said, wrapping his arm with clean cloth. “It is difficult at times, but it’s a noble cause to help people when we can.”_

_Cullen watched with wonder as Ser Roland tied the ends of the cloth, completely patching his arm. They were saved by this group of men - this group of Knights - when he thought that he would lose everything. He would be forever grateful. As he watched the man turn back to his father, a smile came to his face as his mind replayed his words._

To protect the innocent from the wickedness. It was, indeed, a noble cause. One that he desperately wanted to be a part of. He remembered how happy he had felt that he and his father had made it out alive, and it was all because of those Knights. He wanted to bring that same happiness to others, protect those who couldn’t protect themselves, to serve a cause that would help so many. He could think of nothing better to do with his life.

But, instead, he was a delivery boy to his father. He knew that to be a Knight you had to be of noble birth,  _which he certainly was not._  His lips turned into a frown as he brushed water through his hair. He looked over to Branson and groaned silently. _Maker, he’s still talking_ , he thought.

“You’re right…we really should be going,” he interrupted, pushing himself up from the ground. He heard his brother pause and sigh.

“I didn’t mean to insult your looks!  _You’ll hook a girl eventually_!”, Branson laughed. Another, louder, groan escaped his mouth.

“Come on, Bran, we’re wasting daylight!”

**

They rode as fast as they could until nightfall before setting up camp. Cullen sat on his bedroll, the dull sword at his side, as his brother laid on his next to him. They both stared up at the night sky, the stars and moon shining brightly down at them. He sighed, pondering what his life would be like if he was born into a noble family. Not that he didn’t love his family, he did with all of his heart. He even loved Branson. But he couldn’t shake off this dream he had. He felt as if he was living a half-life, that he was supposed to be somewhere else.

“What are you thinking about?” Branson asked sleepily.

Another sigh.

“Do you ever wish for your life to be different than what it is now?” he asked wistfully.

“Well…I suppose I never really thought much about it before. Why?” he answered. Cullen’s eyebrows rose slightly in surprise. He honestly expected some sort of joke about wanting more attractive women in Honnleath.

“Did I ever tell you about the time that Knights saved Father and I from bandits?” He heard his brother confirm that he had and paused, his heart beating fast. The only person that knew of his dream was his sister, Mia, who told him at first that it was impossible, but eventually began to bring him to the Chantry to find anything they could on Knighthood.

“Do you want to be a Knight? Is that why you’ve been training and locked up in the Chantry for so long?” Branson asked, his voice sounding shocked.

“ _Yes_.”

There was a long pause between them before his brother spoke again.

“You know that it’s impossible, right?”

“I know,” he sighed.

But, Maker, that didn’t stop him from dreaming. Wishing. Hoping. Praying for some sort of miracle.

 


	2. Chapter Two

They reached the bustling city by midday the next day, under the sweltering heat of the sun. People pushed past them, mumbling about the latest of the city troubles, and they slowly inched through the crowd to the market. Several merchants were hawking their goods, trying to get more customers than their neighbors, the faint cry of ‘ _fine dwarven crafts, direct from Orzammar_ ’ could be heard in the distance. Cullen glanced over his shoulder at the collection of armor and weapons they had to sell and thought that that merchant wouldn’t even dare touch what they had. **  
**

Branson pointed out a merchant in the corner of the square, watching silently as people perused his goods. The dwarf was muscular and pale skinned, his eyes squinting in the sunlight and his arms were crossed. Cullen’s eyebrow raised at him, wondering why he looked so uncomfortable.  _Did he come from Orzammar?_ he thought. They slowly made their way over and when they arrived all they received for a greeting was a grunt of acknowledgment.

“We…uh, we have some things to sell,” Branson said. The dwarf’s eyes peered up at the two of them and signaled for them to show what they have. They carefully laid out the pieces in front of the merchant and as Cullen lifted the last breastplate from their cart he noticed something pressed along the side between the sacks of grain. He wrapped his hand around what felt like a sword, probably another rusted dull piece of metal, and it was enclosed by cloth and rope. He placed the breastplate with the others before he began to pull at the knots. The cloth began to slip away slowly as he worked the rope and eventually revealed a very old sword. It wasn’t rusted, but it was certainly dull and even the sun couldn’t break through the grime that clouded it. At first glance, it seemed just like another ordinary sword but when he took the grip in his hand, the grooves on the leather and metal pressed hotly against his skin. He turned his attention towards it and saw the pommel was shaped into a lion’s head and the eyes were inlaid with red jewels. Cullen twisted the sword every which way to see every inch. He’s never seen anything like it and despite all of the wear, it was still the most beautiful weapon. His thumb rubbed at one of the ruby eyes, but it still refused to shine in the sun.

He became entranced. Where did it come from? Why had his father hidden it in the attic along with the other armor and weapons as if it were common junk? Surely this had some sort of story behind, some sort of meaning. It wasn’t until Branson cleared his throat that Cullen’s gaze finally broke away. His brother motioned for him to give the sword and he nodded once, reluctantly placed the sword with the others.

They stood in front of the dwarf nervously, watching the furry eyebrows contort into various forms of discontent. The clanging of metal sounded as he tossed the pieces to the ground as if they were trash. At last, he reached for the sword, grasping it tightly as he tilted it for inspection.

The merchant ran his calloused hand over the blade, his thumb sliding roughly along the edge and then trying to scrape through the dirt that had settled over time, and dropped it to the ground with a loud scoff.

“I’ll give yeh five for the lot,” he gruffed, shaking his head.

“Five sovereigns?” Branson asked, his tone shocked and excited, which caused the merchant to burst out a hearty laugh.

“ _Ancestors, no_! Five silver!” he replied, his eyebrows furrowing as he looked at the pile of metal.

“How could it only be worth that much?” Cullen asked while crossing his arms across his chest. The dwarf scowled as he looked up to him, his bushy mustache shifting with the sneer on his lips.

“The metal is shoddy, how it managed to protect anyone is a bloody miracle! The only reason I’m offerin’ anythin’ is for the jewels,” he argued. Silence fell between them, Cullen staring down at the dwarf, eyes squinted and jaw clenched.

He knew that his family could use  _any_  money they could get. Business has declined in the past five years. There were repairs that needed to be done, equipment to be replaced, but money was scarce. But the thought of losing that sword, which could have once shined in battle and held a soldier’s pride, made him reconsider.

“ _No deal_ ,” he said firmly, reaching down to pick the sword up.

“ _What?_  You know that we need the money!” Branson said, blocking him from the rest of the armor.

“We’ll find another way,” he groaned, maneuvering around him. He could hear his brother muttering under his breath as he helped load the pieces back into the cart and for a brief moment he second-guessed himself. How would they get the money that their father expected?  What if they could only bring the money from the grain they sold? It was hardly enough. He thumbed the carved details of the lion’s mane and tried to rub the dirt away from the jewels once more. His eyes widened as he tilted the sword in the blaring sunlight. At the right angle, he saw just a glimmer of light reflect off of the red surface.

The corner of his lips curled slightly as his hand shifted around the grip. Most people might not have taken this as a sign, but there was a tugging at his heart as he saw the tiniest shimmer of light and he couldn’t help but think that that something good was lingering just around the corner. They pulled the cart away from the merchant and back to the center of the busy square.

“So what’s your plan?” Branson asked.

Cullen sighed, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m sure we can find work, we just need to keep our eyes open.”

They weaved through the crowd looking for something -  _anything_ \- that could help them get money other than begging on the streets. Bells rang in the distance, the powerful sound could be heard above all of the chatter.  _The Chantry_. Cullen had always found peace when he prayed to the Maker and he could only take the calling bells as a sign. He turned abruptly, nearly causing a crash with multiple carts. When they reached the Chantry they could see a few townsfolk pinning papers to a board just outside of the entrance.

“See what’d I tell you?”

* * *

Later that day, they found a small clearing outside of Denerim to set up camp. They snatched all of the jobs from the board, selfish as it may be. Some were simple, such as rescuing a cat or fetching food from the market. Others…required more  _dirty work_.

“Cleaning manure?  _Disposing of dead bodies_?” Branson asked wildly. “What did they die from?”

Cullen shrugged as he pulled bits of bread apart, popping pieces into his mouth. “Probably the plague,” he suggested, merely as a joke, but his brother scoffed in response.

“That makes me feel  _so_  much better,” he grumbled. He piled the papers into a stack and placed them into one of the satchels. “Luckily it pays well. All in all I believe we’ll get forty sovereigns, give or take.”

They ate the rest of their ‘meal’ in silence, each contemplating on whether it would be enough to cover their father’s expectations. Sweat from the afternoon sun began to dry against his skin, covering him in a dirty grime. He tied his long hair away from the back of his neck, twisting the leather strap into a tight knot.

“I’m going to find a stream to wash up in and collect some wood for a fire,” he said, standing from his spot.

He wandered north, journeying through the sparse trees. Sounds of birds and his footsteps brushing through the high grass were the only sounds to be heard. The setting sun shone dimly through the trees, barely highlighting the kindling he was searching for. He walked farther and farther and soon enough he could see a road ahead and the gruff chattering of a group of men. He moved cautiously then, unarmed and unsure of who the men were, and listened closely to the conversation that grew clearer with each step.

“So you’re not going to Highever to compete?” One man asked, noisily chewing whatever he was eating. The other cackled at the question.

“Why would I ever want to be a Knight when I could stay in Denerim, surrounding myself with whores and wine every day?” he retorted. Cullen wanted to scowl at the man’s crude reply, but the word ‘Knight’ captured his attention.

He leaned back against one of the many trees that surrounded him, his heart pounding, his mind racing, the rest of the men’s conversation drowning out.  _A Knight of Highever_. Could he be dreaming? Or has fate finally started to work in his favor? Whatever this opportunity was, fate, luck, simply being in the right place at the right time, he knew he couldn’t let it slip away. Of course, there were obstacles keeping him from this. His birthright.  _Money_. Or lack thereof. And his  _family_.

Their father could manage the business on his own. Cullen knew that the spiel of him getting too old was just a ruse so that he could test them, to see if he could put his full trust in his sons to take over when he truly did get too old. If he  _abandoned_ him…would that trust be  _broken_? Or would his father support him in this endeavor? 

If he did become a Knight, surely they would pay him. He would use the money to help his family, naturally. It could replace what needed replacing, fix what needed to be fixed. He would still be helping, still fulfilling his duty as the oldest son, and still achieving his dream. Cullen nodded to himself as if to confirm that he was really going to do this. He was going to at least  _try_.

He pushed himself away from the tree, tracing his steps back to their small camp. He dropped the sticks to the ground as he approached closer to their setup and Branson’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked at his still unwashed state and the small pile of sticks.

“You do realize you’re still disg-”

“Branson,” Cullen interrupted. “You’ll never believe what I just heard. Highever is recruiting Knights.” When his brother opened his mouth to argue, his hands rose to stop him. “ _I know_. There’s the issue of nobility, and money and Father. But this is my  _chance_. My chance to finally have my own  _purpose_.”

Cullen moved to sit next to his brother on the ground, both silent as his words lingered in the air around them. But then Branson’s hand came to his shoulder, squeezing tightly. A smile came to his lips when he looked over to him to see a matching grin.

“I suppose you’ll need help from the  _best_ brother in all of Thedas.”

* * *

Over the course of three weeks, they completed the jobs they’ve collected and several more that were offered to them. Some were simple, such as fetching that cat from a tree or delivering goods from one side of Denerim to the other. Others…well, they were much more  _disgusting_. Disposing of the dead bodies (they were reassured that their death was from ‘natural causes’ or ‘murder’) and cleaning tavern latrines. There were many moments where Branson would scowl, going on and on about how all of this better be worth it. But he never left his side.

They had refurbished the lion’s head blade. The edges were now sharp, the metal gleamed in the sun, and the rubies regained their luster. He had armor fitted to his form and they were only waiting for it to be finished. There was still one thing in their way, though.  _A Royal Family Crest_. It was a simple piece of parchment with a design on it, yet it would determine his fate. They’ve yet to come up with a solution to this dilemma. Finding someone who wanted to do something illegal was _surprisingly_  hard. But perhaps they weren’t looking in the right places.

Branson was in the city that day, trying to find any hints on someone who might forge a crest while he took to practicing with the newly reborn sword. He swung heavily, the grip held forcibly in his hand. He swung again, and again, and  _again_. With every flick of his wrist, the blade would turn a different direction. Cullen imagined sparring with another Knight, their swords clashing together in a practiced dance. He pictured protecting the people of Highever from enemies, the metal edge cutting into their skin and gathering blood. He wanted this. He wanted it  _so badly_ and it was  _so close._

Just as he was about to swing again, a woman’s scream rang through the trees. Cullen paused, trying to determine which direction it came from before his hand tightened on his sword and he ran through the forest. If he could rescue this woman who might be in danger, he could prove to himself that he had what it takes to be a Knight, regardless of his bloodline. As he came closer to where the scream had sounded, he could hear the sound of a horse’s whinny and huffing, but no signs of a woman struggling against a captor.

The trees cleared as he neared the road and his footsteps stopped as the sight came into view. The woman, he’s guessing the one who had screamed, was pulling herself up from a large puddle of mud. She cursed at her horse while tying her mud-soaked blonde hair up and attempting the wipe the dirt from her riding clothes.

“Do you need help?” he asked, stepping closer. Her head turned over her shoulder and when their eyes met his breath was stolen. She was miraculously beautiful, her skin fair, large honey eyes, and pink lips. Her eyebrows raised at his offer as she looked him over, a small hint of a smile gracing her face.

“Come to save the  _damsel in distress_?” she asked slyly. Her body folded over, her hands brushing down her legs and giving him a view that he tried to avoid looking at, lest he embarrass himself more than he was already. He scratched the back of his neck and he looked up to the sky as he searched for the words to say.

“Uh..well, I…I heard a scream and…I didn’t mean to… _impose,_ ” he said, cringing at his own awkwardness. Her light laugh brought his attention back and he noticed her walking over towards him.

“If you happen to have a kerchief, that would certainly count as a rescue,” she mused, her dirty hands coming to rest on her hips. “Trying to clean mud off when you have mud on your hands isn’t a very smart plan.”

He chuckled as he agreed with her statement, his hand rummaging through his pockets to pull out a basic piece of cloth, luckily he had washed it in the river the day before. She quickly wiped at her hands, the mud staining her skin and leaving traces under her nails, and then brought the cloth to her face. Her eyes flicked up towards him while she wiped at her cheeks, her grin widening further as she studied him.

“What’s your name, my _knight in not-so-shining armor_?” she asked as her eyebrow raised. Heat rose to his cheeks as he blushed slightly at her teasing. Just as he was about to answer the sound of a horse galloping and a man shouting was heard in the distance. Her head snapped towards the sound.

“ _Shit_ , I need to go,” she uttered. She pressed the kerchief back into his hand, her soft skin pressed against his calloused. Even the briefest touch from her had him wanting more. He watched her as she mounted her horse and she looked back to him. “It was nice meeting you, Ser Knight.”

Then she was gone.

Just as he was about to turn back to the forest, he saw the pursuer racing up the road. A man, dressed in full armor with a shield to his back and a sheathed sword at his side, and the horse wore a fine leather bridle, the saddle decorated with a blue and green cloth.

“ _You_!” the man called out, slowing his horse as he approached. “Have you seen a woman along this road? Blonde, tall?”

_Great description_ , he thought. Such words weren’t even close to how beautiful she was. He shook his head at the man and he groaned.

“ _Andraste’s tits_ , he’ll have my head for this,” the soldier complained, his feet digging into the sides of his steed to begin his chase once again. Cullen turned away from the man before seeing him ride off, making his way back into the woods and missing the Highever crest that was painted on the man’s shield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and Comments are greatly appreciated!! <3


	3. Chapter 3

As Cullen made his way back to camp, his thoughts were plagued with the image of the woman he met. He’d never seen someone so beautiful and he was kicking himself about the fact that he hadn’t had a chance to ask her name. I suppose we’ll never meet again anyways, he thought, his foot kicking a small stone along the road. But that wouldn’t stop him from fantasizing about the encounter. The way the sun glowed on her pale skin, the teasing lilt in her voice that spread across her face, her features twisting as she studied him trying to be a savior. The whole situation was embarrassing, no doubt causing his face to flush, and even now he could feel a bit of heat rise on his cheeks as he thought of it. He shook his head, trying to block out the memory, as he turned off the path and weaving through the thickets of trees. He was to meet Branson, who had supposedly found a lead on who could help forge a crest, and once they had that essential piece he was told to go into the city to receive a proper grooming.

When he drew closer and closer to their camp, his brother slowly came into view and Cullen’s eyebrows furrowed as he noticed the nervous tapping of his foot and the hunch of his back as he was bent over a piece of parchment. The sound of cracking twigs beneath his steps alerted Branson of his presence, his head snapped up, eyes wide and jaw set.

“Branson,” he said curiously, wondering what had his brother so nervous as he watched him jump up from the ground, his hands playing with the satchel he held.

“Cullen! I - um, well I got the crest…it’s just,” he paused, his eyes looking anywhere else but him.

“It’s just…?”

“ _Don’t be mad_.”

“Why would I be?” Cullen scoffed as he stepped closer. His hand reached out to him, waiting for the parchment to be placed. He could see Branson swallow roughly as he looked at the outstretched palm before rummaging through the sack.

Within a few moments, the crest was in his hand. The soft parchment was rolled and tied with a red ribbon in an attempt to make it more official looking. He pulled at the ribbon and unrolled the document with a smile. But as soon as he saw what was drawn, his smile quickly disappeared. His jaw clenched and his eyebrows furrowed as he double-checked that this is truly the crest Branson picked. Two red lions, roaring and standing on their hind legs, over a two-toned yellow shield. It was unmistakable.

“You chose the _Theirin crest_? The KING’S CREST?” he shouted, his eyes looking up to him under knitted brows. Branson rubbed at his neck as his shoulders shrugged.

“You could pass as one of ‘em! I’ve heard the King sleeps around quite a bit an-”

“I’m going t-”

“Just stop for a moment!” Branson shouted, a hand outstretched and pressed against his brother’s chest. “I did what you asked. We can go to Highever and pray to the Maker that they fall for our trick. _Or_ …we can go back home and give up on this _folly_ of a dream.”

Cullen’s lips form a tight line, his jaw clenched, as the words wrapped around his mind. He watched his brother’s brow quirk, his eyes looking from his stern expression to the parchment still in his fist and back. He couldn’t give up on it so easily, _could he_? A dream that has visited him every night since he was a boy. But to act as the late King’s son? That would be a challenge all in itself. In the midst of his internal debate, his father’s voice broke through, sounding as clear as though he was standing beside him: ‘ _All that is good in life has been achieved through hard work or astounding luck. You can sit and wait around for luck to find you, though it never may, or you can get off your ass and work for it and be a step closer_.’ His stance faltered as the argument in his mind concluded. The words holding true. He couldn’t give up, he had to continue working for his dream.

“I, er, _thank you_ , Bran,” he muttered. “It couldn’t’ve been easy to get this.” He looked back down at the crinkled paper, moving his hands to smooth out what he caused.

“No, it wasn’t,” he said, his hand falling from his chest. “I suppose a few months of groveling and worship should make up for it.”

“ _Right_ , I’ll make note of that,” Cullen chuckled. He rolled the parchment back to the way it was, retying the ribbon.

“Now I suppose all that remains is how you look…and smell,” Branson laughed, his nose scrunched as though he just caught the scent of rotten food. Curious, he grabbed the neck of his shirt and pulled it up to his nose. A fit of coughs erupted from him after one whiff.

“Maker, how can one man smell so wretched?” he choked, half coughing and half laughing. When he turned his attention back, he saw that Branson had a dagger pulled from its sheath and held loosely in his hand. He immediately shook his head. “No. I won’t have you coming at my throat with that. We’ll go to a proper barber in the city.”

“About that…”

* * *

An hour and a close shave later, Cullen had seemingly transformed into a new man. Newly washed skin and hair, clean face and his curls cut just above his shoulders, his hope bolstered as he took on the appearance of a true Knight. Now that the final detail had been taken care of, the both of them had begun to pack up camp, each sharing their speculations on what Highever would be like. Sure, he had read about it in what few books he had back at home, but most of the text was legend, nothing to describe what day-to-day life was like. He knew it lied on the coast of The Waking Sea, so naturally ports and fishing played a big part. But would the whole village smell or seawater and _fish_?

They were close to being finished with packing when they heard a rustling in the thickets followed by a string of mumbled words. Cullen looked to his brother, motioning to their weapons before stepping to them silently. Once the blades were in their hands, their stance grew defensive, their feet inching closer to the noises. The closer they got the clearer the words became though neither men knew what they meant.

“ _Fasta vass_ ,” the man swore. Cullen took his free hand, stretching it out towards the ticket, his fingers wrapping around the prickled branches. In one swift motion, he pulled back the branches revealing a man, no more than 18 years of age, tattered clothes showing patches of dark skin, and the slightest hint of a mustache was above his lips, where a bruise had begun to form.

“Who are you?” Branson demanded. The man’s brows furrowed with clear irritation.

“If pleasantries must be exchanged,” he huffed, pushing past the two of them until he was entirely free of the brush. “I am Dorian of House Pavus,” he said once the pair turned to face him. “And you are?”

“I am Cullen Ru - _Theirin_ and…this is Branson…my _manservant_ ” he stuttered, not used to his new identity though his brother’s new title earned him a nasty glare from him. But just when he thought that was over, Dorian had burst out laughing.

“ _Right_. And I’m Andraste herself,” he chuckled.

“It’s true!” Cullen shouted, his defensiveness rising to the surface. “I have proof.” He walked to his knapsack on the ground, pulling out the rolled scroll and hesitantly handing it to the man. He watched cautiously as he removed the ribbon, fingers opening the parchment. But viewing his only ‘proof’ made the laughter even more riotous.

“Is this truly what you present to people when they ask for a family crest?”

“What’s wrong with it? I paid good coin for that!” Branson argued, followed shortly with a yelp of pain as Cullen kicked his leg, scolding him.

“ _Ah._ There’s the truth,” Dorian said, his eyes looking over the paper before handing it back to Cullen. “Wherever you plan on guising yourself as a King’s son, _it won’t work_. Now, I really must be going, I’m afraid you caught me in the middle of an escape.”

“Escaping…from what?” Cullen asked suspiciously as the man turned to walk away. He saw his shoulders slump as he sighed before finally turning half way to look back at him.

“ _Collectors_ ,” he grumbled. “I happened to have lost…. _several_ hands of cards and in the process, all of my money and I still owe an ungodly amount of gold. I tried to deter them by raising the undead as they were chasing me though that may have worsened my situation.”

“Undead…you must be a mage?”

“ _And you’re catching on_ ,” he sassed. Cullen pursed his lips, annoyed with the mage who was clearly from Tevinter, but an idea sparked in his mind.

“If you’re a mage, you can fix this? Make the crest look believable?” he asked.

“Why would I do that?” Dorian asked with a raised brow.

“Because I need this…to become a _Knight_ at Highever. And Knights get paid a lot of coin when they win tournaments. If you fix this…you can accompany us and we’ll help pay off your debt and be your guard should they try to harm you,” he offered.

Dorian turned around completely, taking a few steps back towards them, one arm crossed his body and the other and the other angled towards his face so his fingers could rest upon his chin. “You would do all this to just become a Knight?”

“It’s not just the title that I want,” he sighed. “I’ve been wanting this since I was a boy, so much so that I feel as though I have no other destiny. I have to t-”

“Alright, you’ve convinced me,” Dorian cut in. “On one condition: I _am not_ to be labeled as a manservant. I shall be a _dashingly_ well-dressed herald assigned to building you up to the crowds and the nobles, no doubt.”

A bright smile spread across Cullen’s face, one filled with disbelief and joy. He wanted to hug the stranger but considering he can raise the undead, he settled a gracious nod. “ _Thank you_ , you have my sincere gratitude.”

* * *

The road to Highever was filled with small talk, getting to know each other on the surface and taking turns riding their single horse to give a rest for their tired feet. Eventually, they stopped at a small village, Dorian insisting that he change out of his tattered rags and into something much more suitable. He settled for a navy-dyed linen shirt and dark trousers, grumbling under his breath about how ‘not only does Ferelden smell of _wet dog_ you also cannot find suitable garments that do not irritate the skin’. But, regardless of material, he was grateful to be out of his destroyed clothing.

It took nearly a day and a half  to finally reach the Highever territory. When the large village came to view in the distance, Cullen thought that his heart was going to leap from his chest. _Highever_. His fate lied so close now, it was tangible, and the thought of that had his hopeful and anxious all at once. With each step, his heart beat faster and faster and as they reached the town line, his mind was spinning with thoughts and light-headedness started to set in.

“I, uhm, I need a moment,” he mumbled. “The horse surely needs water. There was a small stream not too far out of town. Find where I need to go show my papers and come back to me.”

Dorian and Branson nodded reluctantly, still adjusting to their new roles, before continuing into town and disappearing into the throng of people that filled the streets. He pulled on the reigns, turning back to the fields. He breathed deeply as soon as he turned off of the road, as though he was breaching deep water for the first time in minutes. Once they reached the stream, the horse immediately dipped its snout to drink. Cullen stepped down from the saddle, the long ride causing the body to be sore and he knelt along the bank, dipping his calloused hands into the water. He splashed it among his face, a smile appearing as the cold washed away most of his stress. His hands ran through his hair, unfamiliar with its new length but no less curly or unruly.

“That’s a fine steed,” a woman’s voice called out behind him. The voice surprised him, his hands sliding from the grassy bank and to the bottom of the stream, almost elbow deep. The woman gasped before she continued. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you, Ser.”

He chuckled before pushing himself from the ground, shaking off the bit of his sleeves that had become wet. “It’s quite alright,” he mused as he turned to face the woman. But as his gaze met her form, his heart began to beat fast. It was the woman he met in the woods. “ _I assure you_ ,” he finished, his words slow as he took in her appearance. She was dressed in a simple emerald dress, her blonde hair curled and lying along her shoulders and her cheeks, instead of being painted with mud, were painted with a dusted rose hue.

“Have we met somewhere?” she asked, her eyebrow arching with question. He was silent. His heart screamed yes, but his mind knew that he could not listen to it. His hand wrung the back of his neck before shaking his head.

“No, madam…we haven’t had the pleasure,” he told her. A lie. “My name is Cullen.” The truth, this time, followed with a bow. She giggled, a delightful noise that reminded him of the noise of delicate strings being played.

“I am Elissa,” she introduced, presenting a smile and a curtsey. “Have you been in Highever long?”

“I only just arrived a mere half hour ago.”

“Ah, so I presume you’re here to compete for Knighthood?” she asked. He nodded as his lips parted to answer her question. But before he could get words out, a man dressed in guard clothing rode up in the distance, the steed bearing a Highever shawl.

“ _Lady_!” he called, riding up next to them. “I’ve been looking for you. The Teyrn is requesting your presence.”

“You needn’t be so formal,” she complained with a roll of her eyes. “The man’s my father, after all.” Cullen’s eyebrows rose at that. She was the Teyrn’s daughter. He swallowed roughly, his throat dry. After a moment of arguing, she turned back to him.

“Well, I suppose the next time I’ll see you is from the stands,” she murmured, followed by another curtsey. “Good luck, _Ser Cullen_.”

“Thank you, _my Lady_ ,” he replied softly with another bow. His eyes followed her as she walked away with the guard. Not only was he in Highever, hiding his true identity in order to achieve a dream of his, but now there was _Elissa_. A woman who somehow already had a hold on him.

_Shit._

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are greatly appreciated! <3


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